Oath and Stipulation - A Series
Title: Oath and Stipulation
Subtitle: Knowledge of the Art
Ratings: From PG to NC-17. This section is rated PG
Authors: rhr_noir and idanianspice
Author of this section: idanianspice
Warnings: Slash, Written in the Reboot Universe
Pairings, Characters: Garak/Bashir, Bashir/other, Ziyal, others
Summary: On shore leave, Lt. Cmdr. Elim Garak makes the acquaintance of tennis star and entrepreneur Julian Bashir
Authors' Notes: Here we go. It's round-robin-style, so ... yes. Updated frequently. We hope.
Too bright, too cheery, too many smiles. Warm enough, but just barely.
Lieutenant Commander Elim Garak looked around and sighed. Welcome to shore leave, old boy.
He'd heard all the stories about Risa, and in a glance, he found them all to be distressingly true. The famed "perfect" weather, the dual suns, the obsequious staff, and the visitors all in varying states of undress and physical attractiveness: and the two were not always, sadly, directly proportional.
Garak navigated among the lounging tourists, noticing a beautiful Trill sunning herself with one of those ridiculous carved fetishes next to her. Within moments, she was approached by a Risian male, and they soon went off together.
"I don't think we've seen one person who wasn't displaying a horga'hn!"
The excited warble, more than the poke in the ribs, gave Garak a sharp reminder of what he'd been trying to forget during the entire shuttle transport ride - namely, that he was not alone. "I don't think there will be any problem making friends here."
"Oh, I wouldn't go quite that far. Seeing as you aren't here for your pleasure. And you certainly aren't here for mine."
"Eww, Uncle Elim! How can you say that?" Tora Ziyal hissed, jabbing him in the side again. "I'm your niece!"
"I'm all too aware." He rubbed his sore ribs and made a bit more space between them. "What I meant, dear, is that you are to study for your Starfleet entrance exams. As Captain Eddington made shore leave mandatory for senior staff, and as your father and his ship are thousands of light years away from Deep Space Nine at the moment, taking you with me was the only option available."
"No it wasn't. You could have left me at the station. I am of age and perfectly capable of studying for my exams without supervision." The girl flung her head in such a way that showed off her fetching neck ridges to the full. "Though I've always wanted to come to Risa. Thank you for bringing me, Uncle."
The attention that Ziyal's simple movement aroused, particularly in the male tourists they were passing, reminded Garak of just how impossible it would have been to leave his young, beautiful niece on the space station. Especially with that shiftless, peniless cleric, Bareil, skulking about, writing sonnets and declaring his love. The cheek of the man - he was old enough to be Ziyal's father, and was nittering around her like a lovesick riding hound!
She would have been better served to be aboard the Yamato, the shiny starship that his stupid younger brother had improbably been given to command. Garak had told the insufferable fool that right before he dumped her into his lap, but there had been protests, and the old man had approved of his granddaughter being left at Deep Space Nine. So that was that. But Garak did not have to like it, and he didn't, mostly. He smiled to himself. If Ziyal was truly serious about being the first Bajoran-Cardassian hybrid in Starfleet, she was going to have to get used to dashed hopes and hard work with little reward.
But looking at his niece and the excitement evident in her face, his heart thawed just a bit. She'd been through so much in her young life - a mother she'd never known, a father she hardly saw, the weight of being a blood relative of one of the greatest heroes in Federation history, being of two distinguished cultures but with only the vaguest notions of either. Garak found it doubtful that he'd ever have children of his own; he was married to his Starfleet career, after all. Ziyal might be as close as he ever came to fatherhood, and he could not deny that he loved the girl with all his heart. It gave him a certain comfort to know that no matter how he might scowl or posture, she knew it, as well.
"Ohhh, Uncle, isn't it just perfect?" Ziyal spun gaily around, opening her arms to the sunlight. "So warm and so beautiful, and the water is so clear and blue ..."
"Delightful," Garak murmured, noticing their hotel ahead. Once he got Ziyal situated, then he could relax a bit and do what he'd come to the so-called "pleasure planet" for - work, real work. The type he was not supposed to be doing, but the sort that needed be to be done if the Federation was to gain an advantage in the looming war against the Klingon-Breen-Flaxian coalition. Things were getting tense in the Demilitarized Zone between Qu'onoS and the nearest Federation colonies, and if Starfleet intelligence was to be believed, it was only going to get worse.
Garak was not so deep in his musings that he did not notice Ziyal dashing ahead of him to the entrance of the hotel. But he was startled by the sudden appearance of a Human male through the swinging doorways, nearly colliding with the girl.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't see you there. Are you all right?"
The man grasped Ziyal's arm to steady her, and Garak's hand immediately felt for a phaser that wasn't there. He needn't have worried: Unlike some of the personnel on the station, who used such transparent tricks to make Ziyal's "acquaintance," this man seemed barely cognizant of her. Once he'd ascertained that he'd not knocked her into the sand, he moved off without another word, doubtless, Garak thought as he watched him go, to stake out a place on the beach and await ... further entertainment.
He turned to Ziyal, startled to see her eyes fixed on the retreating form of the Human and a dark grey blush staining her cheeks.
"Uncle! Do you - do you know who that was?"
"A human male in rather a hurry." Garak took another glance. "And in rather ... abbreviated swimwear."
The glance lenghtened into a through perusal as the man settled himself on a chair quite far from other tourists. The sliver of teal material left very little to the imagination, and Garak felt his own cheeks warming, and not from the sun's rays, either. He couldn't recall seeing a human male in such a state of undress since his Academy days, and even then, such attire was typically worn as the result of a dare.
"That's Julian Bashir!" Ziyal's voice fairly dripped with delight. "You know, the celebrated tennis player? He's won every notable Earth championship, plus five straight Omegacron Cups, a Zentari Chalice and a Federation Medal of Honor! He also designs his own outfits for competition and has shops on several space stations under the name AmRich Athletics."
"Indeed? He seems so ... young."
Garak found he could not look away quite yet from the object of their discussion. There was something about him that was commanding his attention, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
"And how do you know so much about Humans and their sporting heroes?"
"Really, Uncle, don't you ever read the non-Starfleet dispatches from the Sol System?" Ziyal rolled her eyes. "They do come to the station once a week."
"Somehow, I doubt you and I subscribe to the same sort of subspace channels, my dear," Garak said dryly, taking her arm. "Now let's check in and get settled, shall we?"
The front desk of the bright hotel was staffed by a perfectly lovely and smiling (of course) Risian woman. Garak smiled in spite of himself, wondering if he already was in what Lieutenant Crusher liked to call "vacation mode."
"Welcome to Risa and the Setting Sun Resort." The woman beamed at him. "All that is ours is yours. Your name please, sir?"
As the accommodations were being sorted, the doors behind them opened with a subdued whoosh, and the slightly harried, but genteel, voice he'd heard moments before was suddenly at his back.
"I just thought of something: Could you check under 'Kukalaka'?"
Only years of rigorous Starfleet training and innate sense of cunning that had been honed to a fine point kept Garak from turning around and gawping as did everyone else in the hall. The human was directly behind him and was giving off a heat that Garak could only attribute to a full-body flush. For her part, the Risian clerk fixed a kindly smile and blinked limpid eyes at him.
"Kukalaka, sir? With a 'Q'?"
"With a 'K.' K-u-k-a-l-a-k-a." Garak could discern the slightest waver in the smooth voice. "It just occurred to me that he sometimes sends subspace messages under that name, rather than my own, it ... could you just check that, please?"
"Of course, sir." The Risian's voice was pleasant enough, but Garak's keen eyes glimpsed just the tiniest bit of irritation in the woman's expression. It was gone in an instant, smoothed under a veneer of amiable and efficient service, but the glimpse was enough for Garak to determine that the young human was not exactly endearing himself to the staff.
"I'm sorry, sir." The woman looked up from her console. "There are no subspace communiques under the name ... 'Kukalaka.'" Garak thought the woman sounded minutely pleased with herself.
"I see." The chill in the human's voice indicated that he, too, had picked up on the woman's tone. That startled Garak somewhat, and in the next second, the doors were opening and closing again.
"My apologies, sir." The Risian turned again to Garak, her smile again at the full. "Your suite is ready, Mr. Garak. On this padd is your access number and a schedule of events available to all guests. And if you and your companion," she smiled brightly at Ziyal, "would like to purchase a horga'hn -"
"- That will not be necessary," Garak said stiffly, ignoring Ziyal's giggling. "Ziyal, you follow the porters. I will be up momentarily."
To her questioning glance, he gave his best "obey me" stare, perfected not as he rose through the ranks in Starfleet, but at the knee of his own father. The girl dropped her head and followed the Risian male and female who took their luggage toward the lift.
Garak watched her go and then exited back to the Risian beach. Quickly, he found the spotted the human, who was sitting looking out at the water. After a few moments, Garak realized what it was about the man that had captured his attention.
He wasn't smiling. In fact, he looked utterly demoralized, and that made a stark contrast to the numerous visitors surrounding him, all with grins of delight, pleasure, debauchery, or a combination of the three.
To Garak, that was odd. He could empathize, but his own reasons were quite clear - he was being forced to take leave, he had a task to perform that was weighing heavily on his mind, and he had Ziyal to worry about. Humans, on the other hand, often extolled Risa, claiming it as the premiere paradise in the galaxy. To see a Human looking so forlorn on this so-called paradise was very strange indeed. And if he was such a celebrity as Ziyal claimed, he had his pick of worlds to visit.
He also, Garak noted, didn't have one of those ridiculous horga'hns at his side, though Garak thought he'd have little need of it. The man was, by any standard, a beautiful specimen, with long, graceful limbs, a complexion like buttered toast, and a finely sculptured face that somehow looked even more lovely in its misery. Why come to Risa only to pout - rather adorably, Garak had to admit - and await a subspace communique under any host of ridiculous names that seemed very slow in coming?
Garak ducked back into the hotel and made his way to the suite he'd reserved. It was fascinating, but if he'd learned anything during his years on Earth as a Starfleet cadet and his years in service, Humans were an unpredictable lot - and at times, rather a dangerous one, as well.
The suite was, for Garak, rather typical of the Risian culture - sumptuously decorated with a huge bed in the main suite and a less-sizable one in the adjoining area where Ziyal would sleep, and everything artfully arranged for different pleasures of a sort. Garak noted with a sigh that there were horga'hn-like decorations all over the place and the suite seemed maximized for a type of pleasure one usually associated with the bedroom.
He wandered into Ziyal's room and saw the girl already attired in her swimming outfit and the console that carried all of the practice exams for the Academy nowhere in sight. She turned to him with imploring eyes.
"Uncle, may I go out to the beach? It is lovely out and I would like to enjoy the sun while I can, since," she glared at him, "for most of our time here, I'll be cooped up in my room studying."
"Hmm." He eyed her outfit. The swimsuit was of a dull, drab color that did nothing at all for her coloring or her figure and made her look a bit like an Eccosian root vegetable. Perfect.
"Only for a short time. I wish to unpack and get settled, but I will collect you for dinner, and I want no arguments."
"Yes, Uncle!" Ziyal dashed off, but not before Garak confiscated a miniature horga'hn that she thought she had concealed in the palm of her hand with the protestation that she'd never "seen one so small." Not wanting to dissect that statement any further, Garak sent her on her way.
When she was gone, Garak quickly took out his console and punched in his security code. Unlike the unfortunate human, he did have messages awaiting him, scrambled and with a priority code available only to flag-rank Starfleet officers - usually.
Quickly decoding the transmissions, Garak grimly read the new intelligence. It was as many had feared - the coalition seemed to be amassing a fleet of some sort and preliminary reports indicated they were preparing for an excursion through the stable wormhole just recently discovered in Bajoran space - the wormhole that the Bajoran government had laid claim to and allowed access to any who asked - and who could pay their price.
Starfleet had hoped that rehabbing the creaking old space station that orbited the planet would ... persuade the Bajorans to regulate access to the wormhole, or, at least, impose stricter requirements on who could travel through the wormhole based on better criteria than who could offer up the most gold-pressed latinum.
Garak quickly wrote a reply, scrambled it and sent it back through the same channels. He idly wondered if Captain Eddington has suspected that he was getting orders above his head and as such, enforced a mandatory "shore leave." He was curious as to what his c.o. would do if he found out. But then, the only way Eddington would find out was if the uneasy stalemate was broken and war began. Anyway, he couldn't blame Eddington for having suspicions. Considering who his father was, Garak was often surprised that the Captain didn't have him fitted with a subdermal transponder and monitor all his subspace transmissions.
Ah, and speaking of which ... it's time to see what how my dear niece is enjoying the weather.
Garak tapped a few keys on his console and his screen filled up with an image of the bright Risan sand as seen from Ziyal's right ear.
The transponder had been her father's idea, and Garak had found himself reluctantly agreeing with the fool. Ziyal's silly liaison with the feckless Bareil Antos had awakened them all to some hard truths as it concerned the girl. She was intelligent, lively, beautiful and very impressionable - a trait inherited by her Bajoran forebears, Garak often thought.
His younger brother did him the "honor" of acknowledging that as first officer, Garak had duties to perform and, as such, could not keep a constant watch on his daughter, but a tracking device placed in the Bajoran earring she wore seemed just the thing. It was a gift from her father's sometime-mistress, a very influentual Bajoran sculptor named Nerys, and so the girl had no suspicions. Garak felt a bit guilty, but he did agree that being able to monitor her remotely had its advantages - used sparingly, of course.
He adjusted the levels on his console and heard the sounds of the sea and Ziyal's incessant chatter. His eye ridges quirked upward when he heard a male voice nearby, apparently engaging in conversation with his niece.
"... And your victory over Kol Interra of Iridian Five, was amazing! I've never seen any one return a serve with that sort of speed, and a little twist at the end ..."
"Yes, that was a good one. Interra was injured, so that tainted it a bit for me ..."
Garak sat straight up in his chair. The tennis player! Ziyal had wasted no time in situating herself near the most delectable being on that beach. Garak grudgingly admired the girl's taste. Maybe something had been learned after the Bareil nonsense after all.
"Are you here alone, Miss ... Miss ...?"
Garak leaned closer to the console, eyes narrowing at the question. Was the young man probing in hopes of ascertaining whether Ziyal would be amenable to a ... closer liaison? Garak shook his head. So the man was rather typical after all in seeing something he liked and rather hamhandedly going after it. How distressing that he was now going to possibly have to remove some of his appendages.
"Ziyal. And, no, I'm here with my Uncle Elim. He's on shore leave, and -"
"Shore leave?"
The change in tone was startling. It was almost as if someone had just poured an ice cold drink down the front of the human's almost nonexistent shorts.
"He's ... in Starfleet? Is he ... does he serve on a starship?"
"No, he's stationed aboard Deep Space Nine, and -"
Garak did not hear the rest as he strode out of the room and went for the lift. The human's skittishness piqued his curiosity. He was well aware that there were some people who were not very enamored of Starfleet, but very few of those people were Federation citizens, let alone ones that had received the highest commendation the Federation could bestow on a civilian.
He squinted against the glow of the Risian midday, knowing he was soon tire of all of the relentless light. When his eyes adjusted, he soon spotted them down the beach a ways. Ziyal, was not, as he'd feared, hanging all over the man, and the human was casually laying back in his chair. Garak breathed out a silent sigh of relief. Dismemberment would have to wait - for now.
"Ziyal, come along," said Garak, walking briskly up to the pair. "I'm famished from transport and they are about to begin the dinner service."
His niece looked up, and Garak fancied that if she'd been a different sort of girl, she would've had her hands around his neck just then.
"Uncle Elim, it's only been an hour -"
"Ziyal ..." His voice was pleasant, but the warning was clear. She sighed and gathered her things in a huff. Garak smiled over her head at the young man. "You will excuse us, I'm sure -"
"Oh! I'm sorry," Ziyal glanced back at her companion. "Uncle, this is Julian Bashir, Mr. Bashir, this is my Uncle Elim."
"Lieutenant Commander Elim Garak, at your service," said Garak with a slight bow. He noticed that as he spoke, the man jumped a little, as if he'd been goosed. Interesting ...
"Good to meet you, Commander," Julian Bashir said with some reluctance, barely meeting his eyes. Garak just managed to keep his eyeridges from nudging his hairline. This human had a distinct distaste, it appeared, for Starfleet and its representatives. Of late, only three groups had a similar distaste - the Breen, the Flaxians and the Klingons.
But the human was quite assuredly none of the above, so the enmity had Garak on slight alert. It was feared in some intelligence circles that the coalition would start recruiting agents of other species to carry out some of their missions. It was widely thought that most Federation planets would not be the likely targets of such recruiting, but Garak had to wonder - here was a Terran celebrity, looking perfectly dour, anxious about receiving some 'message,' and not exactly clicking his heels to meet a fellow Federation citizen and Starfleet officer.
In a moment, Garak decided to try something. "Mr. Bashir, my niece has told me about your successes." He smiled charmingly. "Perhaps you'd like to join us for an early dinner? I would love to hear more about your travels, your victories, your ... strategies."
He made his voice deliberately vague, but his eyes watched keenly for any suspicious movements. To his surprise, and perhaps to Ziyal's, judging by her small gasp, the man looked up with a small smile, and nodded.
"I ... I would like that. I've been here three days, and have taken my meals alone. It's a little dull, to be honest." He glanced over at Ziyal. "If you're sure I wouldn't be interrupting?"
"Not at all." Garak retained his smile, but his mind was reeling. He'd not actually thought the young man was going to accept the invitation, and now that he had, Garak felt almost at a loss for words. Almost. "Would the hotel's main restaurant be sufficient?"
"Yes, it's very good." Bashir rose in one fluid movement, brushing sand off his thighs. "I just want to change and I can meet the both of you outside the restaurant in a few moments?"
"Take your time. We are looking forward to it, Mr. Bashir." Garak inclined his head to the young man once more before leading Ziyal away.
They were halfway down the beach when Garak chanced to look over at the girl. She was favoring him with an extraordinary expression that blended annoyance with amusement. It made her look extremely wise, he thought, with tacit approval.
"Yes?"
"Uncle, I did see him first," she said, in a clipped, mock-wounded voice. "You didn't even know who he was!"
"Seeing is all you're going to be doing of that young man, and in that outfit he was wearing, I think you got more than a sufficient look," said Garak, guiding her into the hotel. "And I do know who is he now, my dear."
"Hmph. Now I know why you didn't want the horga'hn!"
"Ridiculous," he said, but he saw the handsome male in his mind's eye, and he had to admit he was ... intrigued. Dinner promised to prove quite interesting.
*
The meal was emblematic of Risa, Garak thought. Too much of it and all arrayed in needlessly artful fashion. Yet he kept his opinion to himself, as there were aspects of it that he did like - the Risian hot pot casserole was not unlike Zabu stew, for example, and there was a fair approximation of gahly, a Cardassian bread dish that Garak adored. The waitstaff moved almost soundlessly, keeping watch over the diners and making sure no one's plate - or glass - went empty.
Garak sipped his tolosh, a beverage that resembled kanar only superficially, and listened indulgently to the prattling of his young dining companions. Ziyal and Julian Bashir were getting on famously, and for a change, he did not feel the overwhelming urge to commit bodily harm.
The young man was charming, but not insinuating, letting Ziyal lead the conversation and encouraging her to speak to her heart's content. If Garak had to guess, Bashir's interest in Ziyal could almost be classified as ... brotherly. Garak was sure that some of that might be due to the girl's absolute inability to flirt properly. She was very un-Cardassian in that subtlety and sleight of mind seemed utterly lost on her. Though, to give Ziyal her due, she was as witty and engaging as their companion, and the dinner hour became plural with Garak hardly knowing where the time was going.
Garak himself was quiet, simply observing, and enjoying what he could of his food. Partly, he did want to simply watch Bashir. If the young human had something to hide, as Garak dimly suspected, certainly it would come out in one form or another. Also, he had a new issue to ponder: Shortly before he and Ziyal had left their suite for dinner, Garak had received another coded communique. It was not good news: For months, the Federation had been working with a high-profile Klingon in the High Council, a man called Worf who appeared to dislike his people's alliance with the Breen and the Flaxians.
It had been hoped that this Worf would be able to speak to some of his colleagues and convince them to conclude a separate peace with the Federation, but the package of "incentives" were found lacking, and to make matters worse, the Klingon Chancellor, Duras, had intercepted some of the transmissions and had sentenced Worf to death. The communique had concluded bleakly; the move to infiltrate the Klingon High Council was just about the last chance the Federation had to settle things peaceably. War was looking more and more inevitable.
Garak was pulled out of his musing by the return of their waitress. She came round bearing a hovering tray of desserts, all of which looked rich and much too sweet for Garak's personal taste, but he dutifully pointed to an interesting dish that looked like seaweed smothered in Delavian chocolate. To his surprise, Ziyal declined dessert and pushed her chair away from the table.
"I'm stuffed, and I think I probably should at least go over the section on quantum mechanics theorems before bed."
Ziyal rose and Garak and Bashir followed suit. "Good night, Julian." She smiled brightly at Bashir before turning to Garak. "Uncle."
"My dear." He raised his hand and pressed it to hers in the typical Cardassian gesture of greeting and departure. Her leaving was somewhat unexpected and made Garak a bit suspicious. Surely she wasn't going to try something as tiresome as writing a subspace message to that idiot Bareil, would she?
Garak sighed inwardly. This was Ziyal; of course she would. Why else leave him alone with the delightful young athlete? The girl was distressingly transparent at times.
He pivoted toward Bashir, intent on making his own excuses to depart, but was stunned to see the human with a bowl of something frothy before him and a steaming cup of tea. Garak caught the scent - it was Tarkalean tea, something he never much cared for.
"This is aratha," Bashir said, brandishing a spoon. "It's rather like ... yigrish cream pie, but spread out on a crepe-like base rather than a pie crust. Delicious."
He nodded toward the dish at Garak's place, which was a somewhat intimidating pile of green and brown swirls. "I'd dig in if I were you. It sort of loses its flavor once it gets to room temperature."
Garak looked over his shoulder. Ziyal was gone. After a second of deliberation, he sat down again. It wasn't all bad - if she was foolish enough to try to contact Bareil, she'd soon find that all her transmissions would require an access code, which only he had. And the dessert did look rather nice. He beckoned a waiter and asked for a cup of red leaf tea.
"Are you enjoying Risa so far, Commander?"
Garak glanced up. Again with that slightly challenging tone when he said 'commander.' But Bashir's face was perfectly pleasant, and a little ludicrous, as the frothy substance was ringing his mouth.
"To be quite honest, this was a forced leave. I looked at the transport schedules and the shuttle to Risa was leaving the station at an opportune time."
"So you don't much like it here?"
"It suits my purpose, which at that time, was to obey my commanding officer."
Garak paused, noting Bashir's slight grin. He'd told the human nothing and Bashir was wryly acknowledging the non-information. It was then Garak knew that whoever Julian Bashir truly was, he was no ordinary human.
"How have you enjoyed your time on Risa, Mr. Bashir?"
Bashir made a face, licking his spoon clean - a movement Garak found endlessly distracting. "Frankly, it's not quite lived up to my expectations. It's beautiful, of course, and everyone is very nice, but I was expecting something ... something more, I suppose."
That was a loaded statement, certainly, and Garak waited for elaboration, but none was forthcoming, and he tucked into his dessert, which really was quite tasty.
"Commander, may I ask you a question?" There was a short silence. "It's of a somewhat personal nature."
Garak looked up. "Oh?"
"Yes ... it's about your niece."
"Oh." Not a muscle of Garak's face moved, but he was conscious of a keen sense of disappointment. Had he read Bashir wrong after all? "And that would be?"
He hesitated for just a moment. "Ziyal joining Starfleet. Is that ... her choice?"
Well. Garak sat back in his chair, slightly taken aback. Whatever he'd thought Bashir was going to ask, it was not that.
"Pardon?"
"I ... I don't mean to say it's bad." Bashir flushed deeply, as if he'd just realized that question might give offense. "It's just I was wondering if she was guided toward that career over some other. I've met some Starfleet officers and many of them had parents, grandparents, in the service, that sort of thing, but none of them seemed very happy."
"And you think Ziyal is being forced? That she is being indoctrinated?" Garak made his voice deliberately soft, almost a hiss, and he took some pleasure in seeing the color drain from Bashir's face. "Possibly by her dear uncle? The first officer on a space station that, until recently, was considered to be in the middle of nowhere?"
"N-no. I mean, I didn't think - I -"
Bashir dabbed at his mouth and jumped up so quickly, he nearly knocked his chair over. "Forgive me. I - I have to go. Good night, Commander."
Long-legged strides took him out of the dining room, and Garak regarded his departing guest with a small smile. Very interesting, indeed. He took a bite of his dessert and grimaced; Bashir had been right. Once it became warm, it wasn't as appetizing. Garak downed some red leaf tea to wash away the bitter taste and very soon after, took his leave.
Garak did not see Julian Bashir again for the rest of his stay.
End Part One
Subtitle: Knowledge of the Art
Ratings: From PG to NC-17. This section is rated PG
Authors: rhr_noir and idanianspice
Author of this section: idanianspice
Warnings: Slash, Written in the Reboot Universe
Pairings, Characters: Garak/Bashir, Bashir/other, Ziyal, others
Summary: On shore leave, Lt. Cmdr. Elim Garak makes the acquaintance of tennis star and entrepreneur Julian Bashir
Authors' Notes: Here we go. It's round-robin-style, so ... yes. Updated frequently. We hope.
Too bright, too cheery, too many smiles. Warm enough, but just barely.
Lieutenant Commander Elim Garak looked around and sighed. Welcome to shore leave, old boy.
He'd heard all the stories about Risa, and in a glance, he found them all to be distressingly true. The famed "perfect" weather, the dual suns, the obsequious staff, and the visitors all in varying states of undress and physical attractiveness: and the two were not always, sadly, directly proportional.
Garak navigated among the lounging tourists, noticing a beautiful Trill sunning herself with one of those ridiculous carved fetishes next to her. Within moments, she was approached by a Risian male, and they soon went off together.
"I don't think we've seen one person who wasn't displaying a horga'hn!"
The excited warble, more than the poke in the ribs, gave Garak a sharp reminder of what he'd been trying to forget during the entire shuttle transport ride - namely, that he was not alone. "I don't think there will be any problem making friends here."
"Oh, I wouldn't go quite that far. Seeing as you aren't here for your pleasure. And you certainly aren't here for mine."
"Eww, Uncle Elim! How can you say that?" Tora Ziyal hissed, jabbing him in the side again. "I'm your niece!"
"I'm all too aware." He rubbed his sore ribs and made a bit more space between them. "What I meant, dear, is that you are to study for your Starfleet entrance exams. As Captain Eddington made shore leave mandatory for senior staff, and as your father and his ship are thousands of light years away from Deep Space Nine at the moment, taking you with me was the only option available."
"No it wasn't. You could have left me at the station. I am of age and perfectly capable of studying for my exams without supervision." The girl flung her head in such a way that showed off her fetching neck ridges to the full. "Though I've always wanted to come to Risa. Thank you for bringing me, Uncle."
The attention that Ziyal's simple movement aroused, particularly in the male tourists they were passing, reminded Garak of just how impossible it would have been to leave his young, beautiful niece on the space station. Especially with that shiftless, peniless cleric, Bareil, skulking about, writing sonnets and declaring his love. The cheek of the man - he was old enough to be Ziyal's father, and was nittering around her like a lovesick riding hound!
She would have been better served to be aboard the Yamato, the shiny starship that his stupid younger brother had improbably been given to command. Garak had told the insufferable fool that right before he dumped her into his lap, but there had been protests, and the old man had approved of his granddaughter being left at Deep Space Nine. So that was that. But Garak did not have to like it, and he didn't, mostly. He smiled to himself. If Ziyal was truly serious about being the first Bajoran-Cardassian hybrid in Starfleet, she was going to have to get used to dashed hopes and hard work with little reward.
But looking at his niece and the excitement evident in her face, his heart thawed just a bit. She'd been through so much in her young life - a mother she'd never known, a father she hardly saw, the weight of being a blood relative of one of the greatest heroes in Federation history, being of two distinguished cultures but with only the vaguest notions of either. Garak found it doubtful that he'd ever have children of his own; he was married to his Starfleet career, after all. Ziyal might be as close as he ever came to fatherhood, and he could not deny that he loved the girl with all his heart. It gave him a certain comfort to know that no matter how he might scowl or posture, she knew it, as well.
"Ohhh, Uncle, isn't it just perfect?" Ziyal spun gaily around, opening her arms to the sunlight. "So warm and so beautiful, and the water is so clear and blue ..."
"Delightful," Garak murmured, noticing their hotel ahead. Once he got Ziyal situated, then he could relax a bit and do what he'd come to the so-called "pleasure planet" for - work, real work. The type he was not supposed to be doing, but the sort that needed be to be done if the Federation was to gain an advantage in the looming war against the Klingon-Breen-Flaxian coalition. Things were getting tense in the Demilitarized Zone between Qu'onoS and the nearest Federation colonies, and if Starfleet intelligence was to be believed, it was only going to get worse.
Garak was not so deep in his musings that he did not notice Ziyal dashing ahead of him to the entrance of the hotel. But he was startled by the sudden appearance of a Human male through the swinging doorways, nearly colliding with the girl.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't see you there. Are you all right?"
The man grasped Ziyal's arm to steady her, and Garak's hand immediately felt for a phaser that wasn't there. He needn't have worried: Unlike some of the personnel on the station, who used such transparent tricks to make Ziyal's "acquaintance," this man seemed barely cognizant of her. Once he'd ascertained that he'd not knocked her into the sand, he moved off without another word, doubtless, Garak thought as he watched him go, to stake out a place on the beach and await ... further entertainment.
He turned to Ziyal, startled to see her eyes fixed on the retreating form of the Human and a dark grey blush staining her cheeks.
"Uncle! Do you - do you know who that was?"
"A human male in rather a hurry." Garak took another glance. "And in rather ... abbreviated swimwear."
The glance lenghtened into a through perusal as the man settled himself on a chair quite far from other tourists. The sliver of teal material left very little to the imagination, and Garak felt his own cheeks warming, and not from the sun's rays, either. He couldn't recall seeing a human male in such a state of undress since his Academy days, and even then, such attire was typically worn as the result of a dare.
"That's Julian Bashir!" Ziyal's voice fairly dripped with delight. "You know, the celebrated tennis player? He's won every notable Earth championship, plus five straight Omegacron Cups, a Zentari Chalice and a Federation Medal of Honor! He also designs his own outfits for competition and has shops on several space stations under the name AmRich Athletics."
"Indeed? He seems so ... young."
Garak found he could not look away quite yet from the object of their discussion. There was something about him that was commanding his attention, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
"And how do you know so much about Humans and their sporting heroes?"
"Really, Uncle, don't you ever read the non-Starfleet dispatches from the Sol System?" Ziyal rolled her eyes. "They do come to the station once a week."
"Somehow, I doubt you and I subscribe to the same sort of subspace channels, my dear," Garak said dryly, taking her arm. "Now let's check in and get settled, shall we?"
The front desk of the bright hotel was staffed by a perfectly lovely and smiling (of course) Risian woman. Garak smiled in spite of himself, wondering if he already was in what Lieutenant Crusher liked to call "vacation mode."
"Welcome to Risa and the Setting Sun Resort." The woman beamed at him. "All that is ours is yours. Your name please, sir?"
As the accommodations were being sorted, the doors behind them opened with a subdued whoosh, and the slightly harried, but genteel, voice he'd heard moments before was suddenly at his back.
"I just thought of something: Could you check under 'Kukalaka'?"
Only years of rigorous Starfleet training and innate sense of cunning that had been honed to a fine point kept Garak from turning around and gawping as did everyone else in the hall. The human was directly behind him and was giving off a heat that Garak could only attribute to a full-body flush. For her part, the Risian clerk fixed a kindly smile and blinked limpid eyes at him.
"Kukalaka, sir? With a 'Q'?"
"With a 'K.' K-u-k-a-l-a-k-a." Garak could discern the slightest waver in the smooth voice. "It just occurred to me that he sometimes sends subspace messages under that name, rather than my own, it ... could you just check that, please?"
"Of course, sir." The Risian's voice was pleasant enough, but Garak's keen eyes glimpsed just the tiniest bit of irritation in the woman's expression. It was gone in an instant, smoothed under a veneer of amiable and efficient service, but the glimpse was enough for Garak to determine that the young human was not exactly endearing himself to the staff.
"I'm sorry, sir." The woman looked up from her console. "There are no subspace communiques under the name ... 'Kukalaka.'" Garak thought the woman sounded minutely pleased with herself.
"I see." The chill in the human's voice indicated that he, too, had picked up on the woman's tone. That startled Garak somewhat, and in the next second, the doors were opening and closing again.
"My apologies, sir." The Risian turned again to Garak, her smile again at the full. "Your suite is ready, Mr. Garak. On this padd is your access number and a schedule of events available to all guests. And if you and your companion," she smiled brightly at Ziyal, "would like to purchase a horga'hn -"
"- That will not be necessary," Garak said stiffly, ignoring Ziyal's giggling. "Ziyal, you follow the porters. I will be up momentarily."
To her questioning glance, he gave his best "obey me" stare, perfected not as he rose through the ranks in Starfleet, but at the knee of his own father. The girl dropped her head and followed the Risian male and female who took their luggage toward the lift.
Garak watched her go and then exited back to the Risian beach. Quickly, he found the spotted the human, who was sitting looking out at the water. After a few moments, Garak realized what it was about the man that had captured his attention.
He wasn't smiling. In fact, he looked utterly demoralized, and that made a stark contrast to the numerous visitors surrounding him, all with grins of delight, pleasure, debauchery, or a combination of the three.
To Garak, that was odd. He could empathize, but his own reasons were quite clear - he was being forced to take leave, he had a task to perform that was weighing heavily on his mind, and he had Ziyal to worry about. Humans, on the other hand, often extolled Risa, claiming it as the premiere paradise in the galaxy. To see a Human looking so forlorn on this so-called paradise was very strange indeed. And if he was such a celebrity as Ziyal claimed, he had his pick of worlds to visit.
He also, Garak noted, didn't have one of those ridiculous horga'hns at his side, though Garak thought he'd have little need of it. The man was, by any standard, a beautiful specimen, with long, graceful limbs, a complexion like buttered toast, and a finely sculptured face that somehow looked even more lovely in its misery. Why come to Risa only to pout - rather adorably, Garak had to admit - and await a subspace communique under any host of ridiculous names that seemed very slow in coming?
Garak ducked back into the hotel and made his way to the suite he'd reserved. It was fascinating, but if he'd learned anything during his years on Earth as a Starfleet cadet and his years in service, Humans were an unpredictable lot - and at times, rather a dangerous one, as well.
The suite was, for Garak, rather typical of the Risian culture - sumptuously decorated with a huge bed in the main suite and a less-sizable one in the adjoining area where Ziyal would sleep, and everything artfully arranged for different pleasures of a sort. Garak noted with a sigh that there were horga'hn-like decorations all over the place and the suite seemed maximized for a type of pleasure one usually associated with the bedroom.
He wandered into Ziyal's room and saw the girl already attired in her swimming outfit and the console that carried all of the practice exams for the Academy nowhere in sight. She turned to him with imploring eyes.
"Uncle, may I go out to the beach? It is lovely out and I would like to enjoy the sun while I can, since," she glared at him, "for most of our time here, I'll be cooped up in my room studying."
"Hmm." He eyed her outfit. The swimsuit was of a dull, drab color that did nothing at all for her coloring or her figure and made her look a bit like an Eccosian root vegetable. Perfect.
"Only for a short time. I wish to unpack and get settled, but I will collect you for dinner, and I want no arguments."
"Yes, Uncle!" Ziyal dashed off, but not before Garak confiscated a miniature horga'hn that she thought she had concealed in the palm of her hand with the protestation that she'd never "seen one so small." Not wanting to dissect that statement any further, Garak sent her on her way.
When she was gone, Garak quickly took out his console and punched in his security code. Unlike the unfortunate human, he did have messages awaiting him, scrambled and with a priority code available only to flag-rank Starfleet officers - usually.
Quickly decoding the transmissions, Garak grimly read the new intelligence. It was as many had feared - the coalition seemed to be amassing a fleet of some sort and preliminary reports indicated they were preparing for an excursion through the stable wormhole just recently discovered in Bajoran space - the wormhole that the Bajoran government had laid claim to and allowed access to any who asked - and who could pay their price.
Starfleet had hoped that rehabbing the creaking old space station that orbited the planet would ... persuade the Bajorans to regulate access to the wormhole, or, at least, impose stricter requirements on who could travel through the wormhole based on better criteria than who could offer up the most gold-pressed latinum.
Garak quickly wrote a reply, scrambled it and sent it back through the same channels. He idly wondered if Captain Eddington has suspected that he was getting orders above his head and as such, enforced a mandatory "shore leave." He was curious as to what his c.o. would do if he found out. But then, the only way Eddington would find out was if the uneasy stalemate was broken and war began. Anyway, he couldn't blame Eddington for having suspicions. Considering who his father was, Garak was often surprised that the Captain didn't have him fitted with a subdermal transponder and monitor all his subspace transmissions.
Ah, and speaking of which ... it's time to see what how my dear niece is enjoying the weather.
Garak tapped a few keys on his console and his screen filled up with an image of the bright Risan sand as seen from Ziyal's right ear.
The transponder had been her father's idea, and Garak had found himself reluctantly agreeing with the fool. Ziyal's silly liaison with the feckless Bareil Antos had awakened them all to some hard truths as it concerned the girl. She was intelligent, lively, beautiful and very impressionable - a trait inherited by her Bajoran forebears, Garak often thought.
His younger brother did him the "honor" of acknowledging that as first officer, Garak had duties to perform and, as such, could not keep a constant watch on his daughter, but a tracking device placed in the Bajoran earring she wore seemed just the thing. It was a gift from her father's sometime-mistress, a very influentual Bajoran sculptor named Nerys, and so the girl had no suspicions. Garak felt a bit guilty, but he did agree that being able to monitor her remotely had its advantages - used sparingly, of course.
He adjusted the levels on his console and heard the sounds of the sea and Ziyal's incessant chatter. His eye ridges quirked upward when he heard a male voice nearby, apparently engaging in conversation with his niece.
"... And your victory over Kol Interra of Iridian Five, was amazing! I've never seen any one return a serve with that sort of speed, and a little twist at the end ..."
"Yes, that was a good one. Interra was injured, so that tainted it a bit for me ..."
Garak sat straight up in his chair. The tennis player! Ziyal had wasted no time in situating herself near the most delectable being on that beach. Garak grudgingly admired the girl's taste. Maybe something had been learned after the Bareil nonsense after all.
"Are you here alone, Miss ... Miss ...?"
Garak leaned closer to the console, eyes narrowing at the question. Was the young man probing in hopes of ascertaining whether Ziyal would be amenable to a ... closer liaison? Garak shook his head. So the man was rather typical after all in seeing something he liked and rather hamhandedly going after it. How distressing that he was now going to possibly have to remove some of his appendages.
"Ziyal. And, no, I'm here with my Uncle Elim. He's on shore leave, and -"
"Shore leave?"
The change in tone was startling. It was almost as if someone had just poured an ice cold drink down the front of the human's almost nonexistent shorts.
"He's ... in Starfleet? Is he ... does he serve on a starship?"
"No, he's stationed aboard Deep Space Nine, and -"
Garak did not hear the rest as he strode out of the room and went for the lift. The human's skittishness piqued his curiosity. He was well aware that there were some people who were not very enamored of Starfleet, but very few of those people were Federation citizens, let alone ones that had received the highest commendation the Federation could bestow on a civilian.
He squinted against the glow of the Risian midday, knowing he was soon tire of all of the relentless light. When his eyes adjusted, he soon spotted them down the beach a ways. Ziyal, was not, as he'd feared, hanging all over the man, and the human was casually laying back in his chair. Garak breathed out a silent sigh of relief. Dismemberment would have to wait - for now.
"Ziyal, come along," said Garak, walking briskly up to the pair. "I'm famished from transport and they are about to begin the dinner service."
His niece looked up, and Garak fancied that if she'd been a different sort of girl, she would've had her hands around his neck just then.
"Uncle Elim, it's only been an hour -"
"Ziyal ..." His voice was pleasant, but the warning was clear. She sighed and gathered her things in a huff. Garak smiled over her head at the young man. "You will excuse us, I'm sure -"
"Oh! I'm sorry," Ziyal glanced back at her companion. "Uncle, this is Julian Bashir, Mr. Bashir, this is my Uncle Elim."
"Lieutenant Commander Elim Garak, at your service," said Garak with a slight bow. He noticed that as he spoke, the man jumped a little, as if he'd been goosed. Interesting ...
"Good to meet you, Commander," Julian Bashir said with some reluctance, barely meeting his eyes. Garak just managed to keep his eyeridges from nudging his hairline. This human had a distinct distaste, it appeared, for Starfleet and its representatives. Of late, only three groups had a similar distaste - the Breen, the Flaxians and the Klingons.
But the human was quite assuredly none of the above, so the enmity had Garak on slight alert. It was feared in some intelligence circles that the coalition would start recruiting agents of other species to carry out some of their missions. It was widely thought that most Federation planets would not be the likely targets of such recruiting, but Garak had to wonder - here was a Terran celebrity, looking perfectly dour, anxious about receiving some 'message,' and not exactly clicking his heels to meet a fellow Federation citizen and Starfleet officer.
In a moment, Garak decided to try something. "Mr. Bashir, my niece has told me about your successes." He smiled charmingly. "Perhaps you'd like to join us for an early dinner? I would love to hear more about your travels, your victories, your ... strategies."
He made his voice deliberately vague, but his eyes watched keenly for any suspicious movements. To his surprise, and perhaps to Ziyal's, judging by her small gasp, the man looked up with a small smile, and nodded.
"I ... I would like that. I've been here three days, and have taken my meals alone. It's a little dull, to be honest." He glanced over at Ziyal. "If you're sure I wouldn't be interrupting?"
"Not at all." Garak retained his smile, but his mind was reeling. He'd not actually thought the young man was going to accept the invitation, and now that he had, Garak felt almost at a loss for words. Almost. "Would the hotel's main restaurant be sufficient?"
"Yes, it's very good." Bashir rose in one fluid movement, brushing sand off his thighs. "I just want to change and I can meet the both of you outside the restaurant in a few moments?"
"Take your time. We are looking forward to it, Mr. Bashir." Garak inclined his head to the young man once more before leading Ziyal away.
They were halfway down the beach when Garak chanced to look over at the girl. She was favoring him with an extraordinary expression that blended annoyance with amusement. It made her look extremely wise, he thought, with tacit approval.
"Yes?"
"Uncle, I did see him first," she said, in a clipped, mock-wounded voice. "You didn't even know who he was!"
"Seeing is all you're going to be doing of that young man, and in that outfit he was wearing, I think you got more than a sufficient look," said Garak, guiding her into the hotel. "And I do know who is he now, my dear."
"Hmph. Now I know why you didn't want the horga'hn!"
"Ridiculous," he said, but he saw the handsome male in his mind's eye, and he had to admit he was ... intrigued. Dinner promised to prove quite interesting.
*
The meal was emblematic of Risa, Garak thought. Too much of it and all arrayed in needlessly artful fashion. Yet he kept his opinion to himself, as there were aspects of it that he did like - the Risian hot pot casserole was not unlike Zabu stew, for example, and there was a fair approximation of gahly, a Cardassian bread dish that Garak adored. The waitstaff moved almost soundlessly, keeping watch over the diners and making sure no one's plate - or glass - went empty.
Garak sipped his tolosh, a beverage that resembled kanar only superficially, and listened indulgently to the prattling of his young dining companions. Ziyal and Julian Bashir were getting on famously, and for a change, he did not feel the overwhelming urge to commit bodily harm.
The young man was charming, but not insinuating, letting Ziyal lead the conversation and encouraging her to speak to her heart's content. If Garak had to guess, Bashir's interest in Ziyal could almost be classified as ... brotherly. Garak was sure that some of that might be due to the girl's absolute inability to flirt properly. She was very un-Cardassian in that subtlety and sleight of mind seemed utterly lost on her. Though, to give Ziyal her due, she was as witty and engaging as their companion, and the dinner hour became plural with Garak hardly knowing where the time was going.
Garak himself was quiet, simply observing, and enjoying what he could of his food. Partly, he did want to simply watch Bashir. If the young human had something to hide, as Garak dimly suspected, certainly it would come out in one form or another. Also, he had a new issue to ponder: Shortly before he and Ziyal had left their suite for dinner, Garak had received another coded communique. It was not good news: For months, the Federation had been working with a high-profile Klingon in the High Council, a man called Worf who appeared to dislike his people's alliance with the Breen and the Flaxians.
It had been hoped that this Worf would be able to speak to some of his colleagues and convince them to conclude a separate peace with the Federation, but the package of "incentives" were found lacking, and to make matters worse, the Klingon Chancellor, Duras, had intercepted some of the transmissions and had sentenced Worf to death. The communique had concluded bleakly; the move to infiltrate the Klingon High Council was just about the last chance the Federation had to settle things peaceably. War was looking more and more inevitable.
Garak was pulled out of his musing by the return of their waitress. She came round bearing a hovering tray of desserts, all of which looked rich and much too sweet for Garak's personal taste, but he dutifully pointed to an interesting dish that looked like seaweed smothered in Delavian chocolate. To his surprise, Ziyal declined dessert and pushed her chair away from the table.
"I'm stuffed, and I think I probably should at least go over the section on quantum mechanics theorems before bed."
Ziyal rose and Garak and Bashir followed suit. "Good night, Julian." She smiled brightly at Bashir before turning to Garak. "Uncle."
"My dear." He raised his hand and pressed it to hers in the typical Cardassian gesture of greeting and departure. Her leaving was somewhat unexpected and made Garak a bit suspicious. Surely she wasn't going to try something as tiresome as writing a subspace message to that idiot Bareil, would she?
Garak sighed inwardly. This was Ziyal; of course she would. Why else leave him alone with the delightful young athlete? The girl was distressingly transparent at times.
He pivoted toward Bashir, intent on making his own excuses to depart, but was stunned to see the human with a bowl of something frothy before him and a steaming cup of tea. Garak caught the scent - it was Tarkalean tea, something he never much cared for.
"This is aratha," Bashir said, brandishing a spoon. "It's rather like ... yigrish cream pie, but spread out on a crepe-like base rather than a pie crust. Delicious."
He nodded toward the dish at Garak's place, which was a somewhat intimidating pile of green and brown swirls. "I'd dig in if I were you. It sort of loses its flavor once it gets to room temperature."
Garak looked over his shoulder. Ziyal was gone. After a second of deliberation, he sat down again. It wasn't all bad - if she was foolish enough to try to contact Bareil, she'd soon find that all her transmissions would require an access code, which only he had. And the dessert did look rather nice. He beckoned a waiter and asked for a cup of red leaf tea.
"Are you enjoying Risa so far, Commander?"
Garak glanced up. Again with that slightly challenging tone when he said 'commander.' But Bashir's face was perfectly pleasant, and a little ludicrous, as the frothy substance was ringing his mouth.
"To be quite honest, this was a forced leave. I looked at the transport schedules and the shuttle to Risa was leaving the station at an opportune time."
"So you don't much like it here?"
"It suits my purpose, which at that time, was to obey my commanding officer."
Garak paused, noting Bashir's slight grin. He'd told the human nothing and Bashir was wryly acknowledging the non-information. It was then Garak knew that whoever Julian Bashir truly was, he was no ordinary human.
"How have you enjoyed your time on Risa, Mr. Bashir?"
Bashir made a face, licking his spoon clean - a movement Garak found endlessly distracting. "Frankly, it's not quite lived up to my expectations. It's beautiful, of course, and everyone is very nice, but I was expecting something ... something more, I suppose."
That was a loaded statement, certainly, and Garak waited for elaboration, but none was forthcoming, and he tucked into his dessert, which really was quite tasty.
"Commander, may I ask you a question?" There was a short silence. "It's of a somewhat personal nature."
Garak looked up. "Oh?"
"Yes ... it's about your niece."
"Oh." Not a muscle of Garak's face moved, but he was conscious of a keen sense of disappointment. Had he read Bashir wrong after all? "And that would be?"
He hesitated for just a moment. "Ziyal joining Starfleet. Is that ... her choice?"
Well. Garak sat back in his chair, slightly taken aback. Whatever he'd thought Bashir was going to ask, it was not that.
"Pardon?"
"I ... I don't mean to say it's bad." Bashir flushed deeply, as if he'd just realized that question might give offense. "It's just I was wondering if she was guided toward that career over some other. I've met some Starfleet officers and many of them had parents, grandparents, in the service, that sort of thing, but none of them seemed very happy."
"And you think Ziyal is being forced? That she is being indoctrinated?" Garak made his voice deliberately soft, almost a hiss, and he took some pleasure in seeing the color drain from Bashir's face. "Possibly by her dear uncle? The first officer on a space station that, until recently, was considered to be in the middle of nowhere?"
"N-no. I mean, I didn't think - I -"
Bashir dabbed at his mouth and jumped up so quickly, he nearly knocked his chair over. "Forgive me. I - I have to go. Good night, Commander."
Long-legged strides took him out of the dining room, and Garak regarded his departing guest with a small smile. Very interesting, indeed. He took a bite of his dessert and grimaced; Bashir had been right. Once it became warm, it wasn't as appetizing. Garak downed some red leaf tea to wash away the bitter taste and very soon after, took his leave.
Garak did not see Julian Bashir again for the rest of his stay.
End Part One